Global recipes & tales from food & travel writer Kathy Hunt

Month: March 2012

Although beets didn’t make the list of 2012 food trends, I’m beginning to think that they should have. Everywhere that I go, I see these gorgeous root vegetables. Even restaurants pledging to serve seasonal, local foods are doling out salads, soups and sides of purple, golden, white and candy cane-striped beets. I’m not complaining. If there’s one vegetable that I can happily eat day in and day out, it’s a sweet beet. Beauty as well as taste must be influencing this current craze for you just can’t beat the aesthetics of this veggie. Tumble a handful of luscious magenta beets over a mound of otherwise bland greens and you go from dull to dazzling in seconds. Toss a few yellow slices atop pasta or grilled chicken and you end up with a sunny meal to brighten the chilliest and rainiest spring days. Sold year-round, beets are at their peak from June to October. During this time I can buy the usual purple as well as the more colorful varieties. I can also pick up crisp …

Like many people, my early experiences with seafood were pretty uninspiring—imagine meals of greasy fish sticks dipped in tartar sauce and gloppy tuna noodle casseroles. After my father suffered a massive heart attack at a high school football game, the choices became even bleaker. Gone were those fatty but flavorful standards, replaced by heart-healthy baked salmon, cod, flounder, tuna and haddock. Although delicious when prepared properly, these unfortunate fish met the same fate as my mother”s over-baked potatoes. Cooked on high heat and without butter, olive oil or even a squeeze of lemon juice, the fillets possessed as much succulence and savoriness as sandpaper. My way of dealing with homemade fish dinners was simple. No sooner did the tough fillets hit the table than they found their way beneath it. Unfortunately, not even the easygoing family dog, who gobbled up my unwanted spuds, green beans and oatmeal, could tolerate this fish. What spared me from a lifelong dread of seafood were Friday nights. On those evenings my parents and I went to their favorite Italian …

Maybe it’s the water from the River Liffey or the way that Irish bartenders pour their stouts. Whatever the reason I have become one of those curmudgeons who grumbles that Guinness tastes best in Ireland. When I’m in Ireland, I’ll down pint after pint of this smooth, dry brew. Hardly unusual—one out of every two pints consumed in Ireland reputedly is a Guinness. Yet, when I’m back at home, I’m more apt to empty it into a pot and cook with it than I am to drink this Irish beer. Drained from a bottle on American soil, it just doesn’t provide me with that wonderful richness and effervescence of the Irish original. Because my friends are generous and unaware of my finickiness, I have received many, many 6-packs as well as the occasional case of Guinness. Remember 2009, when the 250-year anniversary stout was released? That was a banner year for beer-based dishes. What do I make with all that booze? Well, after sampling a bottle and confirming that I’m still a major fusspot, I …

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t eat raisins. In elementary school they were the sugary treat that held me over until dinnertime. In high school they balanced out my otherwise unhealthful school lunch—Cheetos and ham salad sandwiches, anyone? Today they are what I toss into my camera bag when I head out on an assignment or throw into my suitcase when I go on vacation. Small, portable and virtually indestructible, they’re the perfect snack for anyone on the run. Because of my unabashed love of dried grapes, it never occurred to me that some people might hate them. More importantly, it never occurred to me that I might someday cook for these folks. Yet, today I know a surprising number of raisin detractors. Finding the fruit too rich, sticky, hard or wizened, they fish them out of my salads, sides, desserts and sauces. To a raisin devotee, this seems like sacrilege; after all, they’re rejecting one of nature’s best iron-, potassium- and protein-packed sweets. While I may never sway raisin haters over to …

My early relationship with baked potatoes was a prickly one. Although a capable cook, my mother loathed cooking and took much of her culinary frustrations out on spuds. Russet potatoes were her weekly whipping boys. After vigorously scrubbing and stabbing them with a fork, she would lob the potatoes into the oven and bake them at 400˚F until parchment paper-dry. What could have saved these crumbly creatures—a generous dollop of sour cream or pat of creamy, salted butter—was never applied for ours was a cardiovascular health-conscious, low-fat household. When I baked potatoes, they didn’t fare much better. Rebelling against my mother’s overcooked creations, I grossly under-baked these root vegetables. In the end they resembled door stops, ones that I fed to our overly plump dog. While my mother and I waged our separate wars on potatoes, much of the world was enjoying them. As well they should have. Rich in Vitamins C and B-6, complex carbohydrates and potassium, these members of the nightshade family have sustained cultures and countries for centuries. If only they weren’t …